


Herald

by n7chelle



Series: A Herd of Black Sheep [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 22:30:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n7chelle/pseuds/n7chelle
Summary: Athena wakes up after the first attempt to seal the Breach.





	Herald

Athena wakes suddenly, flat on her back. She holds still, stiff as a board and tense with anticipation. Her last awakening, shackled in irons, blood burning as if aflame in her veins, is still fresh in her mind; but a moment of silent waiting brings no pain, save the dull pinch of hunger in her belly. Her eyes open to unfamiliar surroundings: a simple thatched roof, rough stone floors, the belongings of a stranger strewn about...and a pale, lanky elf half-kneeling and frozen in shock.

"Oh—y-you're awake! Seeker Pentaghast said—at once—"

"Wait! Where am...I..." A chill wind sweeps inside, an unseen door slams shut—the elf is gone before Athena finishes a single word. The cold air settles over her like an frosted cloak, and she shivers despite the blazing hearth and woolen blankets. "Never mind, I suppose."

She waits, expecting the Seeker to come barging in at any moment, as she had before in the prison. With nothing but the creak of wooden beams in whistling winter winds to keep her company, Athena gradually becomes aware of a distinct throbbing in her left hand. Her arm is wrapped from elbow to fingertips in cotton bandages, secured with a small silver pin at the underside of her wrist. The bandages crinkle like dry leaves over her palm, where the strange mark must still be embedded in her flesh. The pain is not nearly so unbearable now, though whether that's due to the numbing poultice or some effect of the Breach, she can't begin to know.

The distant clang of metalwork sounds somewhere in the vicinity, and the buzz of many voices of suggests people are going about their business outside the hut. Perhaps no one is coming after all? She isn't content to simply wait around forever. 

Bracing herself for the cold, Athena pushes back the blankets. She's been dressed in a simple woolen shift and cotton smallclothes, though not her own. Surprisingly, the stone floor is quite warm and pleasant against her feet as she stands to explore the room. A low-backed chair sits nearby just so, as if someone could have sat vigil at her bedside only moments ago, and on the chair is a bundle of folded clothes that can only be meant for her.

The tunic is beautiful and finely made. Athena's fingers whisper over the black scales, nails catching on the slight layering in their silky texture. The lining actually _is_ silk, a deep, wine-colored red that slides over her skin like gossamer. Unfortunately, whoever this fine piece of clothing once belonged to—or whoever had tailored it for her—hasn't quite matched her size.

It isn't exactly a surprise; she's long since gotten used to having clothes tailored to fit her generous proportions since puberty had decided to have a laugh and hit her a bit harder in some places than it apparently did to her peers. Aunt Angevieve's gift felt like a gift from the Maker, for all that it squeezes her like one of those obnoxious Orlesian corsets. She'd gotten used to the sensation over time for the sake of not garnering so many stares. Now, however, she has no such recourse. Gone is the cinching leather wrap she'd worn beneath her smallclothes, and the full breadth of her _assets_ are testing the fortitude of this tunic's seams.

Athena carefully does up the tunic's silvery buttons. She struggled a bit with the last few, grateful for the secondary line of inner clasps that would hopefully prevent any embarrassing incidents. The pants are snug, but roomy enough in the hips that she can't really complain. The brown leather is buttery soft and lined with warm fur. She can't help but wonder at the change in her reception. Last she could remember, she was the prime suspect in murdering the Divine and blowing up the Conclave. Whatever happened at the Breach is a blur, nothing but emerald green magic and a not insignificant echo of intense, full-body pain in Athena's memory. But something must have happened. The Chantry isn't known for dressing up prisoners before trial or execution; then again, the Chantry is in chaos now, that much she can recall. Perhaps she isn't in their custody anymore?

Regardless, she isn't getting any answers standing around in here. If they didn't want her to leave under her own power, Athena reasons, they would've posted guards inside. She splashes her face with some water, rebraids her hair to keep it out of her face, and gives herself a once-over in the modest vanity behind the washbasin. Neither the buttons nor the seams appear under any great strain. Still, she breathes carefully, a tad shallow, feeling every inch of the fabric breathe with her.

* * *

Nothing could have prepared Athena for the sight which greeted her upon swinging back the door to the humble cottage.

She expected a village, perhaps a Chantry courtyard, not... _this_.

Snow-capped mountains she can handle. The Temple of Sacred Ashes is (or at least, was) hidden deep in the Frostbacks, after all. The armed soldiers, the crowd of praying faithful, the Chantry clerics—all the pieces make some kind of sense, but she can't reconcile them with the reverent tableau laid out before her, nor the silence which steals over all present at her appearance. Her first steps over the threshold onto newly fallen snow crunch overloud in the sudden vacuum of silence. Then, as she passes uneasily between the column of soldiers flanking the dirt road, whispers follow her.

_That's her. The Herald. **The Herald of Andraste.**_

People lower their eyes. Bow their heads. Kneel in the snow and dirt, hands clasped in supplicant prayer.

Unnerved, Athena takes the only path available: forward, up to the still-standing Chantry.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first in a series of short fics about my most recent Inquisitor (currently stalled at WEWH, life responsibilities why must you get in the way of true love?!) I was a little bored with the canon Trevelyan backstory and started coming up with some wild-ass headcanon, which spiraled into posting on r/dragonage for a few weeks in a row. I'll be posting them here as well from now on, so they're easier to follow or catch up on!


End file.
